


Next Time

by idgit_with_a_fidget



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Bruce Feels, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:09:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idgit_with_a_fidget/pseuds/idgit_with_a_fidget
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Bruce has a hard time holding on, but Tony is his anchor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Next Time

In the darkness, his eyes worked perfectly. He was used to working in dim light, performing intricate and complex alchemy on fragile vials where there was little more than a dying ember of a candle wick. The lenses of his circular spectacles caught the weak glow of corridor bulbs that created a fuzz of pale lemon yellow around the closed door of Bruce’s room. He fumbled around in his bedside drawer and found the clunky black firearm lying where it always did: half buried by worn socks and dried, unusable pens he found were difficult to throw away, as though he had developed a near sentimental connection to them. 

They were his aids. He could design, devise and depict whatever formula, contraption or essay he put his mind to, and each ink stained ream of parchment was a sober, frustrating reminder of failed attempts and miscalculated equations. However, they also told him what not to do, and this spurred him on. Inactive, perhaps in his studies, his mind never ceased to ponder and puzzle.

The black, small pistol rested in Bruce’s hands as he sat himself gently down on the edge of his bed.

The bedroom in which he slept was strategically positioned in the middle of Stark Tower. Not too near the bottom-too easy to escape onto the streets, and besides, Odin’s first son was below as defence- and not too near the top so that he wasn’t going to knock the entire building to the ground (It was, in fact, Clint who occupied to top bedroom: a bad joke made by Tony). He was pleased with this arrangement. It made him feel secure, trusted. 

Slowly, he ran his forefinger down the length of the gun and his middle across the breadth. It was an old instrument, battered and notched like a bedpost. There were no bullets resting inside of it like a fish’s eggs; nothing he could use to cause himself any damage. Damage? he thought. Not even a grenade could make him bruise. 

Bruce raised the gun to his head and dragged the barrel’s nose along his forehead, letting it hover above his temple. His hands fluttered. Mildly amused despite his melancholy he flicked the gun upwards, mimicking that ear-splitting yet innocuous noise it would cry before dispelling its fire. His chest heaved. 

In the hallway outside a shadow stretched, and the shape of sock-clad feet was visible between the crack where wood struggled to meet carpet. The door was pushed open, and it squeaked faintly in protest, and the hard ochre light from the hall sliced into Bruce’s bedroom, illuminating the surprising bareness of it. 

Tony leant theatrically against the door frame, supporting his weight on his left elbow. He watched Bruce who had now pressed the gun’s muzzle against his lower lip, forcing his mouth to part. His teeth were square and grounded down, and his tongue was a dead speechless thing in his gums he was too afraid, too ashamed to use. He felt his own breath ghost the tip of his nose and the dip of his philtrum: hot, dry and steady. The gun felt like the pressure of a lover’s teeth on his lips, or fingers ready to be chewed during a tense movie scene. He didn’t look at his visitor as he held the pistol in his lap again. He just stared, eyes pained, face stoic.

“That’s not going to work, you know,” Tony pointed out, no sign of regular cheer in his tone, just solemn concern.

Bruce nodded meekly. “Yes. I know. It just feels good to hold it sometimes…”

Lingering in the doorway, Tony stuck his tongue to the roof of his mouth. The tingle of wine buzzed on the sensitive muscle. He slept on the floor above, and concern over Bruce’s recent reserved and reclusive attitude had tempted him to knock upon the scientist’s door, wondering if he would be able to give him a bit of a pick-me-up. He let Bruce talk.

“I don’t understand why its presence comforts me,” Bruce continued, musing aloud; pitch escalating an octave as he became exasperatingly puzzled. “Why should I feel calmed by an object that only acts as a reminder of something I can never achieve, what I can never turn to because whenever I try…the…well, you know about the Other Guy.”

Tony nodded sympathetically. Or was it empathetically? 

“I understand.”

“No you don’t, you jackass!” Bruce suddenly snapped desperately. “You’ll never understand; you’re not like me. You’re not me. You’ll never be anything like me! I don’t know why you insist we are alike; why would anyone want to share this burden? You lionize this condition, you make it seem as though it is a pleasure, a strength, a glorified power to have. You don’t understand what it does to me, what it does to the people around me. It is not something to admire, it is something to be repelled by. You should _run_ from me! If you were to take this weapon and shoot yourself in the temple you would die! You would be _normal_. It would _work_!”

A haunting of green diluted into Bruce’s irises, but it might have been imaginary.

Bruce thrust the gun forward.

“Take it,” he ordered gruffly. “Take it and use it. If you say you are me, then prove it. I dare you.”

Tony stepped away from the door and gripped his hands into fists. He considered punching him, or holding him, and then punching him again.

“I’m not going to-”

“ _Prove it!_ ”

The shout reverberated around the small bedroom. He liked it small-it suggested control to him. Bruce met Tony’s eye, then dropped his gaze to the floor. His hand moved to his elbow: a defensive position. Tony leaned closer and easily took the gun from his friend’s grasp. His skin was flushed with a blistering warmth, and it had the signs of dehydration. Sweat stains were faded tear-like marks on his sexless pastel shirt, and he was quivering.

“Sorry,” Bruce murmured. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”

“Agreed.”

“Take my mind off of it.”

“What?”

“Talk to me about something else,” Bruce repeated. “It…it helps…”

“Banner, I’m not one for heart to hearts…” Tony tried to protest, but as Bruce bowed his head and turned back to perch upon the mattress, he bit the inside of his cheek. He paused, thought and then said:

“So, how far have you go with a girl then, Banner?”

Bruce glared at Tony again and a hint of a smile glimmered across his mouth. Tony shrugged.

“You asked me to talk about something else.”

The other man nodded. “Suppose I did. And…well, do I look like the sort to have many girlfriends?”

He budged over to make room for the billionaire who sat with his back against the wall, feet off the floor. Bruce was still perched, hands clasped together between his knees, feet firmly on the carpet. Tony hit his forearm boisterously. 

“Shut up. Smart, good-looking guy like you? You should’ve had the pick of the lot!”

Bruce arched an eyebrow. “You think I’m good-looking?”

A beat. 

“Seriously though?”

Bruce’s shoulders shuffled. “Not a lot of girls like nerdy cloistered types, I’ve found.”

“You’re more than nerdy,” Tony chuckled. 

“I failed some classes at school,” Bruce admitted, removing his glasses. The strong light from the hallway was beginning to relax. He could feel his pulse returning to its usual hexameter-like pace. 

Tony sat up. “No, you?” he asked sardonically.

Bruce didn’t register the sarcasm. “Yeah. The Einstein Syndrome if you will. Just…too smart. Too smart.”

There was a moment of calm that overcame Bruce’s posture. His shoulders sagged, his back curved forward into a slouch, his hands dropped and he leaned backwards until he was lying face-up on the duvet, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes were tender and he rested his fingers on his stomach. His chest rose and fell. Shadows curled on his cheeks. Tony toyed with the gun. The seconds stretched.

“And then,” Bruce’s tone was tired. “After the Gamma accident, I turned myself into a runaway, never staying in a place for too long. I stay a while, grab my kit, treat some people and get out again if I get…cranky. Never had time for relationships. Not really.”

“Mm, shame,” Tony yawned. “You’d make a good ‘lab partner’.”

Bruce rolled his eyes, closed them, the whites of his eyes slipping under their lids. Tony was still itching for conversation. 

“Did you do anything crazy in your youth? Go wild at all? You must’ve gone wild.”

A scoff.

“Sorry. ‘Going wild’ might not be…yeah…”

Bruce made a gesture of boredom. “No.”

“No alcohol?”

“No.”

“Drugs?”

“God, no!”

Tony dismissed this exclamation of horror with a tilt and slide of his lips. “Woken up in a stranger’s bed?” 

“Not that I can remember.”

Tony winked. “Exactly.”

In the darkness, the tower creaked. There were the groans and clunks of water pipes. A distant mumble of a fridge. A rumbling vibration of Thor’s snores. The tower was alive. 

“Thank you, Stark,” Bruce muttered, voice slipping in and out of drowsiness. 

Balling his fingers into fists, Tony pressed his knuckles against Bruce’s arm. “Happy to, um…what did I do?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. 

“You listened,” Bruce confided, voice small and intimately quiet, as though on the verge of succumbing to slumber. He pointed towards the door. “Now get out before we both end up as saps.”

Tony clambered off of the bed, laying Bruce’s gun on his chest as he went. He moved towards the door. 

“Keep breathing,” he suggested.

Bruce raised a hand to his eyebrow in silent salute. Tony jerked his head upwards, baring his neck.

“My room’s that way. I’m always available for sleepovers and girl chats,” he added.

Lazily aiming at Tony, Bruce went ‘pyoo’ like a child using a banana as a BB, before letting his hands fall by his side. Tony observed him for a moment, just to make sure, and then left, leaving the door ajar a sliver.

As soon as his footsteps had died down, Bruce rolled over, wriggling on his stomach until he could just about reach the bedside drawer. He teased it open and replaced the gun: burying it under worn socks and old empty pens, until next time.


End file.
